


Songs for the Reborn

by Fadesintothewest



Series: Rebirth [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 05:18:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3315554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fadesintothewest/pseuds/Fadesintothewest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curufin is Reborn. Will he be able to forgive himself and learn to love?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Songs for the Reborn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DaydreamBelieversDaughter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaydreamBelieversDaughter/gifts).



Curufin heard the strange voices calling out to him, voices with a strange, deep, sad harmony. Simple in their song, yet soulful and full of something he could not recognize. The hymn called to him, growing louder, his vision darkening, but the sound, it grew brighter, became like vision. In that moment he felt he was looking upon Arda marred from above, his being floating, dense and cold, looking through the strange density of matter. He was starlight. He was at that moment of death where the fëa releases and for a moment, a fleeting moment, the fifth son of Fëanáro felt release: release from the Oath; release from the bitter shadows he cultivated within himself. But then the voices pulled him down, anchoring him in their sorrow, their harmony like twilight, slipping between what had come before--the second kinslaying--and what came after. His release was momentary. As his fëa drifted towards death the voices of the dead reached out to him, but there was no comfort in their melody, for they were calling out to their dead, calling out to those he had slain and felt no remorse for. In life he had barely given thought to the dark elves that fell beneath his sword, those Unwilling that had taken refuge in Menegroth. 

Maybe it was the blood filling his throat, drowning him, life pulling him back to remind him of his dark deeds. But the voices drew him back and into darkness he plunged, a spirit without a home, one of the houseless. And that is when he saw them, the Unwilling, a strange mass of color and matter, and from the center of that came the songs, calling to those that had died to come, and those spirits traveled into that strange matter like a fallen star that called out for its lost children. There was a powerful sense of peace that emanated from the dizzying luminescence. But it was not for Curufin. Though he tried to seek it out he found himself lost and quite alone. 

How long he wandered in infinite sorrow and emptiness he did not know, but he clung to the songs he had heard, using that melody to anchor him to something, a something that did not exist in a realm outside the possibilities of Eru’s universe. He’d also remembered his face, his golden face. He held onto that, those blue eyes, when he felt he was dissipating, he searched for those blue eyes and found some sense of who he was. But that was only disappointment. That was when Mandos appeared before Curufin. His naked form a terrifying vision. Curufin cowered before the Vala, if such could be said of a spirit that shifted between light and darkness. 

“Curufinwë, son of Fëanáro and Nerdanel, grandson of Finwë and Miriel, I seek thee,” Mandos pronounced.

The words sounded strange to Curufin’s spirit, a spirit that had long forgotten what it was like to sense sound, to feel the tenor of speech send its subtle energy into one’s being. Yet Mandos’ words were like kindle for Curufin’s spirit. Mandos moved towards Curufin, his form taking the more familiar shape of an elf. He lifted his arms towards Curufin. “Come with me. It is time.” Curufin obeyed. He was utterly powerless and had no will. Maybe this is what the Valar desired, desired to break him so utterly to make him nothing, a blank slate.

“Not a blank slate,” Mandos’ voice shimmered, “for your thoughts betray you Curufinwë.” Mandos’ arms reached around Curufin and enveloped him an embrace. An embrace! Curufin’s broken spirit tried to weep, but there was no such release for the bodiless. Curufin sensed the pieces of him being gathered to him, being made bright. And then there was a shadow, a vision of something in the great wide expanse around him. Curufin was inside somewhere, inside something! And that is when he realized he was in the Houses of the Dead. His time for healing, he hoped had come, but there was so much regret.

)()()()(

“…Wake up,” a voice in the distance called out to Curufin. But hard as he try, Curufin could not make his way to the source of the voice, and so the voice came to him, calling more loudly, “Wake up!” But Curufin evaded the voice. Though he tried, wanted to find the source of the voice, his relentless guilt and sorrow were stronger companions and so Curufin fled, fled to try to find the expansive lack of matter where he almost ceased to be. But the voice, now voices persisted. And from the darkness a single golden note called out to him, a song so beautiful he felt tears wet his face. Tears? Sensation? The voice called out to Curufin, but unlike the voices he heard after he had died, this voice was for him, it called him, pulling him out of darkness and slowly the light of ëa engulfed him and he opened his eyes, startled by the sense of having sight, the light bright, and the figure hovering above him even brighter. Memory flooded Curufin. He had been reborn, but not made new. No Curufin carried the songs of the dead with him and he was sorrowful. Being reborn had been mostly heartbreak it seemed, both for those reborn and those who dealt with the reborn.

As Curufin’s eyes took in the faces of those that surrounded him he saw Maedhros’ face looking upon him, his face full of love and sorrow. Next to Maedhros was the face of one he had betrayed: Finrod. Yet Finrod sang for him, sang a Song of Power that willed him to be. Strange, Curufin thought as he looked up through tear-filled eyes at Finrod, that these new songs the Reborn sang were a strange mix of Avamanyar songs and old songs that once guided the Second Clan on their Journey to the Undying Lands. Though the Reborn returned to the ranks of Elvenhome, they were not entirely welcomed. This too was a part of the redemption, or so some said, but many of the Reborn did not see it that way. Though they had much to be forgiven for, there was also much they would not forget and forgive of themselves. Endórë had etched itself into the very essence of their beings and the Reborn refused to set this part of themselves aside. Indeed even in death Endórë could not be refused. Strange, Curufin thought, now the Reborn were recast as Refusers, a strange and fitting fate. 

The Reborn became a strange new Clan in the Undying lands that refused to abandon their Sindarin names, to leave behind the meaning the life across the Sundering Seas had given them. For the Reborn saw such a desire to forget the life that was theirs before death a worse sort of sin: to forget the deeds and misdeeds of their previous lives was to dishonor those that were victim, to forget those that they loved. But Curufin was having a harder time being Reborn than most. Maybe it was because he had been the purveyor of much darkness. Maybe it was because he was still Curufin, Fëanáro’s fifth son, the one who was said to be most like his father. And yet he was Reborn, a gift, or curse, not bestowed yet on Celegorm or Carnistir. Amrod and Amras were the second and third of Fëanáro’s son’s to be Reborn, the most deserving of rebirth, but they too were restless. 

Maedhros’ fingers gently traced the contours of his brother’s face. “Oh brother, dearest brother,” Maedhros whispered leaning over to kiss Curufin on the forehead. “Forgive me for failing you.” 

Curufin grabbed Maedhros’ hands, a little bit of his fire kindling, bringing some sort of light into him. “You did not fail me,” Curufin whispered, his voice still raw from being recently remade. “I failed you,” Curufin cried out. “I failed you,” Curufin sobbed. Maedhros hugged Curufin into him, holding him tight. Curufin could feel his brother’s heart beating in his chest. He could smell his brother’s familiar scent. Curufin wrapped his hands in his brother’s hair, much like he had as a child. “If only for this I am remade,” Curufin whispered, “remade to share this simple joy of you holding me, then it is the greatest gift.” 

Maedhros pulled away to better look at his brother, his eyes shining with open joy. “Tis a gift to hold you again, a gift I dare say I do not deserve--“ 

A voice interrupted Maedhros, “But a gift nonetheless. Whether one is deserving is something that someone else will write about. For us Reborn, our only task is to live and seek joy for if not we succumb anew to Doom.” Finrod’s voice was steel and ice. His conviction shone in his bright blue eyes, eyes that looked upon Curufin with no anger. But how, Curufin wanted to cry out, how could Finrod look upon him without contempt, without hate, for was not Curufin responsible in part for his death? But not for him and his brother did Finrod’s people abandon him to his fate? 

“Enough with dark thoughts,” Finrod commanded, knowing Curufin’s mind. “Enough with regret. We have a very long time to contemplate that,” Finrod continued. “But heal we must,” Finrod’s voice dropped in a whisper, his hands taking hold of Curufin’s, a quiet sort of grasp, soft and warm. Finrod turned to look at Maedhros and the two shared a look of understanding. 

Though it had been but a few weeks, Maedhros was still in disbelief that Curufin had been released. He had feared that those that most sought the oath were all lost to him. That Maedhros had been reborn was unexpected, and that he was the first Feanorian to be reborn drove Maedhros to a new grief. But Maedhros had come to understand that it was his place as the eldest to make a place for Amrod and Amras, to make their transitions easier. He owed them that. Maedhros sighed. “Very well. I will leave you two for now.” Bending over, Maedhros once more kissed his brother. “It fills me with joy that you are returned to me.” Maedhros stood and smoothed out his tunic while he contemplated Finrod. Without a word he turned and left the small bare room, leaving Finrod and Curufin alone. 

Curufin was about to quietly launch into a litany of regret, but Finrod placed a finger over his mouth, silencing him. In the space of silence Finrod began to sing again, a soft song. Unlike the elder Songs of Power the Noldor wielded, this song was also power, but it was yielding and gentle. Its power was potent for it drew on things that those older Songs could not. These new Songs of Power were like Finrod and Curufin, remade. In them was death, sorrow, renewal, and hope. Finrod understood the power in these new Songs; songs that were maybe like the songs first sung to the stars by the shores of Cuiviénen when the elves first awoke. Gone was the desire for mastery, but not the desire for autonomy. These songs were stubborn declarations of the Doomed’s desire to be whole. So Finrod sang, his voice echoing in the small room, the echoes sounding like distinct voices harmonizing. But it was Finrod’s mastery of song that he wielded using the echoes to fill the room with the presence of those that had suffered at their hands, those they had lived and were yet lost to them, those that, perhaps, were lost to them for evermore.

Finrod slipped into the bed beside Curufin who watched him, his eyes wet with tears. Curufin allowed Finrod to take him into his embrace. Curufin of old would have recoiled, but he was too tired to fight back. Curufin melted into Finrod, maybe it was the power of the Song, but he also recognized the unexpected heat that invaded him. Finrod’s hands began to travel over Curufin’s skin, his song building in intensity. Curufin’s body respond to Finrod’s touch, his skin aching for his old lover’s caresses. Curufin stared up at Finrod, his eyes questioning the desire of the moment. Did Finrod not remember that Curufin had taken him as lover only to betray him? Did Finrod not remember that their coupling had been harsh and violent? 

“I remember,” Finrod replied. Though Curufin at first thought Finrod was intuiting his feelings, now he was not so sure. “Those were dark days,” Finrod remembered, “but I lay with you then, as I do now, not in hate, nor do I think you took me then fully in hate.”

It was true Curufin thought to himself, his desire for Finrod then had not been wholly an ugly thing, but he was so dark and lost then that he had hated his desire for Finrod. “I need not hate it now,” Curufin finally spoke, his fingers combing through Finrod’s golden hair. Unlike Maedhros, this hair triggered an entirely different emotion: desire, love, and perhaps regret, yes regret. Curufin paused, though Finrod had ceased singing, he could still hear the strange song. Curufin shared a puzzled look with Finrod. 

Finrod laughed, a gentle, rolling sound that reminded Curufin of Finrod before the Doom. But before Curufin could loose himself too much in nostalgia Finrod spoke again, “They are singing for us.” 

“Singing for us?” Curufin questioned looking around, but he could not see beyond the white walls of the small room, and the linen drapes covered the windows. 

“Yes, they are singing for us,” Finrod repeated looking out as if he could see through the walls of the room. “They come to sing for you,” Finrod continued turning his gaze back to Curufin, running his fingers through the silky blackness of Curufin’s hair. 

“I do not understand,” Curufin whispered, his hands traveling down Finrod’s torso feeling his body beneath the light linen tunic. 

“The Reborn sing for you, for me, for all of us. They sing for forgiveness and they sing for us to live.” 

“They sing for us to live,” Curufin repeated. 

Finrod shook his head, “Yes.” 

“But not for regret,” Curufin whispered, his eyes coming to look into those blue eyes that haunted him, blue eyes he remembered pausing to look at him as Finrod left to fulfill his oath.

“Yes,” Finrod answered, “not for regret.” Finrod too saw Curufin as he was that fateful day he followed Beren. “I do not regret my oath,” Finrod added, taking hold of Curufin’s face, knowing the other would try to look away when stories of oaths were spoken. Knowing Curufin’s mind, Finrod continued, “And maybe your oath’s words were darker and more ominous, but they were also uttered for a father’s love, for a love shaped by loyalty.” 

Curufin tried to look away but Finrod held him firm. “Seek forgiveness, not regret, for those things we did, though tragic and wrong, cannot be undone.” Finrod turned his head towards the light that filtered through the shaded window. “Harken to the voices. Hear their Power,” Finrod’s voice whispered willing Curufin to take the healing of melody. 

Curufin felt compelled by Finrod, such was his power, or maybe Curufin realized, such was he changed, that he would dare heed someone else’s words. Curufin closed his eyes and listened, listened to the simple harmonies, words that reverberated with beauty. “Oh Eru,” Curufin cried out, his being filling with light, “oh Finrod, forgive me for I loved you then and I love you now.” 

“I know,” Finrod wrapped Curufin in an embrace, gently kissing him. “I know,” Finrod repeated, like a prayer, placing another kiss, this time on Curufin’s cheek. “I know,” he breathed, taking in Curufin’s breath, his essence into himself, his soft lips closing over Curufin’s.

Curufin felt the gentle warmth of Finrod’s breath on him, the taste of his lover familiar. Curufin leaned into Finrod’s kiss, his own mouth claiming Finrod. And the song was like a blessing, a prayer that sank into the depths of their being, cleansing their desire. Curufin pulled back, looking upon Finrod, his need coloring his cheeks. Finrod removed his tunic and slipped off his trousers, his golden skin a revelation to Curufin. Finrod slipped the sheet off of Curufin’s naked form, revealing skin like freshly fallen snow.  Curufin lay still watching as Finrod kneeled over him, his lover, then like now, a beauty and generous. For Finrod it was also healing. Though he had loved Curufin, he had also taken much darkness into him, had sought to defeat Curufin, if only for a moment, make him succumb to the desires Finrod knew that broke Curufin. 

But now the lovers had a chance, a chance to rebirth something old and make it good. Finrod pulled Curufin to him, pulling his legs around him. “I will have you and you will have me,” Finrod commanded. Curufin acquiesced with his own will, a will sung into being, nurtured made strong. Their lips crashed together, their kisses desperate, hungry, their bodies remembering the long march of time that had come between them. It was a beautiful desire, lacking the censure that had bound them in another life. Now they were free to explore their longing.

“I need you in me,” Curufin demanded, “I need you to fill me, be me,” Curufin begged, but he was not ashamed for the song was cleansing.

Finrod flung Curufin on the bed, wetting his fingers in his mouth, fingers that found their way into Curufin, stretching him, willing him open to receive him. Curufin writhed beneath him. “Take me now Finrod for I have not born nothingness for this!” Curufin too was finding himself, finding who he had been--bold, confident, and brash. 

“As you command,” Finrod whispered, lifting Curufin’s hips and guiding himself into the space of another being that waited to hold him. At first their movement was slow. Finrod explored the sensation of Curufin and Curufin discovered anew his desire within himself. But something, like a thin veil, fell and all that was before them was bliss, and their bodies celebrated the gift of Eru, the gift to grow into the heights of passion. Their lovemaking was hard and raw, and it was like an offering, an offering they were sharing with one another, uniquely theirs. Together they crossed the pinnacle into the exalted fervor of bodily devotion. 

Finrod fell from his knees next to Curufin, wrapping his arms around the dark haired elf. Curufin felt right. He could not remember the last time he had felt a lack of guilt, a lack of dirtiness. Curufin felt…clean. Their breathing was heavy as they lay next to one another in bliss. Curufin turned to look at Finrod. “This is healing,” Curufin shared, not as a question but as statement. 

“It is,” Finrod replied, taking a moment to catch his breath. After a time, Finrod continued: “A healing, a way we can find ourselves in our bodies remade, be reminded of what they are for, and stretch out and find all the infinite ways that we are made to live.” And this Finrod understood was the Gift that the Reborn brought back to Aman. Though these lands were undying they too had withstood the wrath of Doom and it had weighed heavy upon them, stealing from them as well: a marring, but no more.

Curufin placed his hand on Finrod’s cheek, feeling the warmth of his lover. “Out there when I was in nothingness,” Curufin whispered, his voice trembling with the memories of death, “what terrified me the most was loosing myself and becoming as one with nothingness.” Curufin shivered,  “It was terrifying,” he confessed, sharing for the first time his experience following death. 

Finrod pulled him closer, feeling that familiar length and weight of Curufin’s body against his. Yet in that other place and time, before his death, Finrod had stolen these moments of intimacy. They were fleeting. They were never his. Nothing was his. Nothing was theirs. Only the Doom. “I cannot imagine what it was like,” Finrod acknowledged, “but you are here, you are something, and more than that, we became more than just ourselves.” This was theirs. 

“I think I understand,” Curufin offered, his gaze watching the drapes flutter with the light breeze. “Oh, the song has stopped,” Curufin realized.

“It has,” Finrod answered, his voice giving way to silence, though the silence that lay between them was not emptiness. This silence was comforting, a peace they had finally come upon. They looked upon one another with awe, with love, and most of all with recognition. 

“I know you,” Curufin broke the silence.

“And I,” Finrod replied, “I know you.”

And that was a great comfort for Curufin. 

*~*~*~*~*~

The End

 

 

 


End file.
